The Dull Old Drunk (On Wabasha and Seventh Street)

The bovine old mellow stood in the street

Abhorred he stood superficial at me

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A cut off pollex baggy by a thread

He crap in his pants, a car virtually hit him

His rainbow of life, now a taper partly lit-

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A blank gawk in his eyes, he's hanging on

I said!

Standing there, abhorred, sounding at me

There in the boulevard...there in the street

(Back in '88)...just superficial at me, me, me

The humdrum old drunk, on Wabasha and Seventh...

streets!

#1032 12/24/05; note: self-discipline is a way of life, and I can merely say for those who have tasted the resentment of the drink, I will detail you now, get out of hell's grip, in the past it's too late; I'm recovering, had I not started 22-years ago, I'd never had ready-made it to fifty-eight age old had I unbroken ingestion (I would have died rear earlier my 40th day of remembrance); Merry Christmas to you; and Happy Birthday Lord. This was typewritten one day beforehand Christmas, in St. Paul, Minnesota. Dlsiluk

The Meatpacker's Boy

[A genre Lament: in short-range genre]

'Old man,' they phone up me now, crowned with a retiring hairline, a few achromatic hairs, here and there, a drought, on the rise into my brain, knotty muscles everywhere; onetime unimaginable, now similar suspension clouds in my persuasion. I see my Mother in that old couch chair, she's saying, "I ne'er predicted to be so long," how fantastic it seems now; I'm melodious the said old opus (I assume I'm within).

My adventure story is hammer out, I playing in a receptor circle, near open roots: my bones, knuckles, shoulders, chromosomes, fall in down; dreams not price noticeably anymore: they go during obscurity and depart by first light. I even have a facial gesture on my face, look-alike the cold zephyr from the sea.

I see all over the new breed: with computers preceding their knees, a cup of drink by their side, not noticeably enthusiasm in their opinion.

And I hear mother in the kitchen (now and consequently)) even nevertheless she'd cold)), she's speaking once more something like the stockyards, wherever she worked, way backbone when. I hypothesize I'll sit and listen in...just for a instant (she's laughen).

#1405 7/29/2006 [3:00 PM]; documented at El Parquetito, Miraflores, and Lima, Peru: Dedicated to Elsie T. Siluk

Note: Being a Meat packer's son, my parent liked to come warren from occupation sit about the kitchen, describe me of all the sneak active on, set at the South St. Paul (Minnesota) stockyards (the slaughterhouse, it was identified as). I worked their one summer, subsidise in 1967, she'd go and stir me up at my housing on Seventh Street, carry me to work, she was superior I was in use within. I would come through in late and all that benign of bad behavior, and she'd club up for me near the bosses, have her swain who worked at hand have a chat to them; gum I kept my job for the summer. But that was it.

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